How many a rustic Milton has passed by, Stifling the speechless longings of his heart, In unremitting drudgery and care! How many a vulgar Cato has compelled His energies, no longer tameless then, To mould a pin, or fabricate a nail!
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
Fear not for the future, weep not for the past.
Music, when soft voices die Vibrates in the memory.
The pleasure that is in sorrow is sweeter than the pleasure of pleasure itself.
Twin-sister of Religion, Selfishness.